To An End (A New Beginning)
by AgentDuck
Summary: "Don't." Eyes snap back to hers. "Don't pretend that you care." It's scathing, raw like the grazes tracing her knuckles. She feels the fury reawakening, creeping along the edge of her mind, flickering, baiting. Waiting. (Or the scene that follows the Clexa reunion in 3x02)


**AN: So I started writing this at 11pm and fell asleep half way through at 2am. Then continued whatever I had written over the next day.**

 **I've been meaning to write something of a character analysis, but I thought, for the sake of the fandom I'd write it through fanfic instead. So... I did.**

 **And yes, this is almost exactly how I think they'd behave. Although I definitely don't think Clarke will soften as much as I wrote her to (which isn't actually a lot). But I wanted to write something of a hopeful ending.**

 **Either way, enjoy. Comment. Review. Kudos. Whatever you like.**

Clarke wasn't angry. Anger was tolerable, manageable. Anger was concealable.

No.

Clarke was furious. So furious her rage had morphed into an echo of an emotion.

Numbness.

She wasn't sure how long it had been since her explosive reunion with the Commander and she didn't care to find out. After having been dragged kicking and screaming out of the room with Lexa, she'd been pushed into a simple room with a single window, a bed and table, on which sat a plate with bread and an apple, and a bowl of water and cloth. She hadn't touched either, choosing to rush the rapidly closing door and ram herself against it, her fists pounding and smashing themselves against the solid, bolted wood until they were bruised and bloodied.

Her efforts had proven futile and instead she had searched the room for anything useful, a makeshift weapon, something to lodge against the door to pry it open.

Nothing.

The bed was a simple mattress lying on a long block of solid metal, the table thick pieces of wood that would need a heavy hammer to break apart, the plate and bowl nothing more than a thin piece of smooth wood. Even the window had no glass, but rather thick metal bars lodged deep into the cement wall.

She had laughed then, an unpleasant hysterical sound, and suddenly she felt trapped inside. She remembered the prison of the Ark, of her cell covered in sketches of imagined beauty and freedom, she remembered the enclosed space of Mount Weather and the prison within. She laughed at her own image of wonder the ground would be, of the massacre and torment it was instead. She laughed at herself, for thinking she could ever be free of pain.

And then she'd dragged herself to the darkest corner of the room, away from the food and bedding, and collapsed backwards against the cold wall, sliding to the floor where she stared motionless at the ceiling.

Which was where she still sat, painting bloody faces on the wall with the crimson liquid covering her hands. Fingers tracing over her rough canvas, tortured faces staring back at her. Of children. Of Finn. Of Anya.

Knees curled up to her chest, she waits. She can see the sky outside start to darken, shadows dragging slowly across the room. The blood on her hands dry, but she does nothing to clean it. Instead, she observes the fresh wounds littering her knuckles, the pain that comes from clenching her fists and the trickle of blood that seeps through the cracks of the newly formed scabs as they're stretched.

Eventually, the only thing illuminating the room is the moon, and from her angle on the floor, she barley manages to stare out the window. Out at the stars that spread across the sky, so clear against the stark blackness of their background.

She stays that way even when she hears footsteps stop outside her door and the bolt side as the door pushes open. She stays that way as the footsteps enter and the door closes again. She doesn't need to look to see who it is; the footsteps are soft, the presence light and distinctly her.

"You have not eaten."

She would have laughed at the normalcy of it had her emotions felt anything other than numbness. But she remained still, gaze cast out through the window.

"I assume you have not slept either."

Silence.

"You cannot ignore me forever, Clarke."

Try me, she thinks. A smirk almost curls at her lip.

But then Lexa is walking around the room placing and lighting candles as she goes. One by one, the room becomes brighter and Clarke's hard gaze finally lands on the Commander, whose own gaze is fixed on the painted wall beside Clarke.

Lexa's eyes flicker to the bloody hands in her lap and then up to her face, meeting her steely gaze.

"I will summon a healer to look at your hands and any other injuries you may have." She takes a step back, as if to leave but Clarke cuts her off.

"Don't." Eyes snap back to hers. "Don't pretend that you care." It's scathing, raw like the grazes tracing her knuckles. She feels the fury reawakening, creeping along the edge of her mind, flickering, baiting.

Waiting.

"I did what I had to do." Lexa's chin lifts. "My people had a way out. I took it."

This time, Clarke laughs. A humourless, grating sound. "Had to? You did what you had to? You broke the alliance with my people," with me, she nearly says, "and then formed one with the very people who had been slaughtering yours for decades. And you kept it." She could see Lexa's fists clenching and felt a rise of satisfaction out of it. "You found it more honourable to maintain a deal with your enemy, than you did with your allies. You could have waited for your people to be released and then turned back with your army, the largest one you have ever had, to fight. To win." Clarke's own knuckles were bleeding freely again from how tightly they were clenched. "But you didn't and you left us there to die."

"It was never my intention-"

"It never is your intention, is it!" She snaps. "You call me weak for showing compassion, but that compassion saved your life. You say you trust me, and then you turn your back on everything we had. And now," She seethed, "now you need me and expect me to just comply? You don't get to need me, Commander." She places her palms on the floor and pushes herself up into a standing position, facing Lexa. "You don't deserve it."

There's silence again and Clarke considers telling Lexa to get out. To leave her, like she's so good at. But instead the Commander steps forward, slowly, cautiously, until she's standing directly in front of her. Green eyes tracing her face, absorbing every detail new and old.

"I don't," She whispers, "I do not deserve anything from you. You could have died at the Mountain and I would have earned every amount of pain, because I left you there." A hand rose carefully and Clarke watched warily as it hovered over the skin of her cheek. "Which is why I'm saying now that I want more than an alliance, Klark." Blue eyes snap to green. "I want your people to become my people."

Whatever semblance of calm that had settled over her was set alight and she jerks backwards out of reach.

"Get out."

Finally, finally, Lexa's eyes show something other than nothing as the words reach her; remorseful, pained. "Klark, if our people join I will never have to choose between yours and mine again." I will never have to leave you again, goes unspoken between the two.

"I will never bow to you, Lexa."

It's almost ironic how Lexa's head lowers at Clarke's words. "I do not ask you to bow to me. You would be given the same power as every other clan, but this time it would be bound in blood. A complete unity of our people, not an alliance."

Lexa's eyes drop to Clarke's bloody hands again and a second later she turns. For a moment she thought Lexa was actually going to leave, but she turns away from to door to collect the cloth and bowl.

"You do not need to decide now, but your people will be guaranteed protection under the unity. Trade routes, medicine, clothing." Green eyes turn back to face her, promising. "I would never need to choose again, Klark."

For a moment, Clarke feels hope flutter in her chest, a welcome reprieve from the betrayal and fury she'd felt for over three months, but those few seconds were too long and she shuts it down without thought. Lifting her chin to stare defiantly back. "I am not the leader of my people. I don't get to make that decision for them. You should have spoken to the Chancellor, the council."

Lexa's head tilts as she observes Clarke for a long moment. Silently, she gestures for Clarke to follow her and sits on the edge of the bed, placing the cloth and bowl down beside her. Warily, she steps closer until she's beside the relaxed figure, a stark contrast to her own tense form.

"My people look to you as leader of the Skaikru, not your mother. They will not honour a blood union unless you are involved in the decision and ceremonials of it." Fingers reach forward to grasp her own and Clarke barely manages to resist the urge to jerk away again.

Lexa slowly drags the wet cloth along her bruised, tender knuckles and Clarke winces, feels her knees buckle as she collapses onto the mattress at the gentle touch. She watches as sadness flickers across the brunettes face.

"I thought you were dead." The cloth drags along her fingers now, wiping blood and days worth of dirt away with it. "I sent scouts to look for you, but they always came back with nothing. I felt it fitting. Karma for what I did to you." A self depreciating curve met her lips. "And then news of the Ice Queen wanting your head came through and I…" She hesitated. "I could not let you meet the same fate as Costia. Even if you hated me for it."

The cloth was dropped back into the bowl and squeezed, draining the excess liquid. When Lexa made a slight move towards her face, Clarke did nothing. Just waits. The lack of response was taken as permission and the cloth was soon cleaning along her jaw.

A few quiet minutes passed before Clarke decides to speak again. "Just because I can understand why you did something doesn't mean the sting of betrayal is there any less." She's almost resigned, but shoulders remain in their tense posture. "We had an alliance, Lexa, and you broke it." She looks up and waits for Lexa to meet her eyes, speaking sharply. "I thought your word was worth more than that."

Lexa pauses her movements, the cloth resting on her cheek, but says nothing as Clarke observes her for any hint of new emotion.

And she does. She sees the pain, the wistful longing. She sees the dilated pupils and not quite glassy eyes. She sees the clenched jaw and the dark shadows under her eyes. She sees Lexa and she knows.

Clarke's terse resolve weakens and she lets herself imagine, for a single moment, a different world. She reaches up to the hand holding the cloth against her cheek. Wraps her fingers around Lexa's and guides the cloth to her cheekbone, almost encouraging her that it was okay to continue. By the way green eyes wavered, some semblance of hope flickering, she knew the reassurance meant everything to her.

"But maybe…" she whispers, "Maybe in time… we'll see."


End file.
